


Accidental Fate

by WillNotTell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, My First AO3 Post, Post-Hogwarts, Roommates, Tags May Change, Time Travel, hermione is a dude for a bit, inspired by certain kdramas, not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillNotTell/pseuds/WillNotTell
Summary: I randomly chose one trope and one pairing... and they were roommates. Let's see what happens.Wilford Rosier is in a bit of a pickle. Where on earth is he supposed to find the perfect roommate for the Dark Lord himself?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 1
Kudos: 57





	1. Right place, wrong time?

To say the room was spinning would have been an understatement. The walls, the air, and her limbs were all just a swirling mess with no way to tell anything apart. As her body clashed with the objects and space itself, it seemed it all grew and grew, and she feared it would explode taking down the building _they_ were in. Maybe even the whole world.

The bigger _they_ got, the more claustrophobic she felt. She would have screamed had she had a mouth or ripped all of her hair off if she still had any. But then with a bang as loud as only the birth of an entire planet could have been — it all ended.

Hermione woke up on the floor. It was cold and her head was throbbing so much she must have been seconds away from insanity. When the blur clouding her eyes finally dispersed, she looked around to find herself in a library. Not just any library but the one she had planned on visiting that day. The problem was, she had no memory of how she got to Hogwarts. And why _the bloody hell_ was she on the floor?

A tall witch stepped out of the Reference section only to halt upon seeing Hermione, who was still struggling to get up. Too shocked to speak, both stared at each other for a long moment. She was well acquainted with the entire staff, however, she could not recognize the woman’s face. She looked far too old to be a student, too.

Albeit with obvious hesitation, the older witch stepped forward extending her arm. Hermione took it with just as much reluctance but had no other choice than to hold onto. Her legs were wobbly, and so was all of her body. In such a shape she would have lost a duel even to a second year. Instinctively she reached to feel her wand underneath her robes. Even if she was helpless, she was not the one to go down without a fight.

“Miss,” the witch gave her a final look up and down, “what are you doing here?”

“I think I may have fainted,” She must have. And when she did she hit her head. _Hard_.

“But who are you and how did you get here?”

“Er,” while Hermione contemplated the latter herself, the fact that the witch did not recognize her was even stranger. She had never deliberately sought the spotlight, yet the media followed all of her steps now. Being a war hero had made her into a celebrity of sorts. Her life was no longer just hers. “I was to meet with the headmistress—”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Head _mistress_? You are not from around here, are you?” she tightened a grip on Hermione’s arm. ”Let me take you to the infirmary and I’ll call for headmaster Dippet.”

With those words, the last bit of her sanity had shattered. Up until that point she ignored all those details that did not match with her memory of this place. She spent hours and hours in the library, she could describe its every corner with utmost precision had anyone bothered to ask. But this was not _that_ library. At least not from her time.

* * *

The odds were in her favor. Well, sort of. The headmaster had some other far more important things to tend to, so he sent Professor Dumbledore to investigate the obscure person, who had seemingly fallen out of the sky and onto the marble floors of Hogwarts’ library.

Even though it should have been and, until this moment, _was_ impossible to breach the school’s wards, the fact remained — a young lady, so pale as if drenched out of all of her blood, sat across the professor. Intrigued he looked deep into her eyes, but Hermione could not hold the stare. Instead, she focused on the rug beneath their feet.

_Is it the same one that is still there in_ his _no longer occupied office?_

She wiped a traitorous tear from her cheek and opened her mouth to get much-needed air into her lungs. Though it did nothing. She still was short of breath as if hundreds of rocks had been put on her chest.

“I believe you have quite a story to tell, Miss…” he raised an eyebrow waiting for her to fill in.

“It is probably better if you don’t know my name, professor Duh—,” her voice cracked. “I-I need your help, professor. Something went very wrong… the last thing I remember is waking up this morning and then—then I was here.”

“How peculiar. Would you like some tea, my dear?”

“Er, yes?”

“Very well,” he got up from his seat seemingly pleased and not at all bothered by the lack of answers.

The tea was too sweet for her liking, however, it calmed her down quite a bit. She would not have put it past Dumbledore to mix something in it.

“Perhaps I have lost my mind or this is some kind of far too vivid dream but… I am not from this time, professor.”

“So you came from the future I assume?”

“Well, yes. Do you know if that is possible? To jump back years, decades even?”

“You tell me, my dear. Are you lying?” She shook her head at which he smiled. “I did not think so. In that case, it appears that time travel is indeed possible. While not entirely unheard of, going this far has not been reported in any records known to me, I’m afraid.”

“How am going to get back?”

“For now it is enough that you have made it here intact. In a day or two, your missing memories may come back. It most likely holds the answer on how you got here and how you can return.”

“And what if it takes longer than that for me to remember?” Once again she felt the panic rising.

“Well, you will have to try and blend in until you do.”

She dragged her fingers through her tangled hair as the last resource of control and slumped into the chair. This was not a dream but a _nightmare_.

* * *

The nightmare soon became far worse than she could have ever imagined. She had been snatched and forced into this timeline almost a week ago, yet had no idea how. Fearful her existence could mess up the future she had asked Dumbledore to get her Polyjuice potion. While doubting the need for such drastic measures, he did send her a month worth of supply. The professor seemed to enjoy her peculiar situation taking on the role of her guardian. She was grateful, truly, albeit disappointed he could not secure her a spot at Hogwarts. She would have felt more at ease there she imagined.

Since she did not know how much longer she’d have to stay in 1948, she had to be more cautious of her spendings, too. There was only so much she was willing to take from Professor Dumbledore. She needed a job and a cheaper room than the one she had at Leaky Cauldron. But first, she needed a new identity. The latter was easy; she had bribed a muggle hairdresser to get her one of their client’s hair. Hermione chose the client wisely, or so she thought.

There was a different face looking at her in the mirror — the face of a man.

“Merlin’s beard,” she sighed. “So much for being an independent woman. I guess it will make things easier in the 40s.”

Her new face had a certain charm to it and landed her a job at a bookstore in just one day of looking. She took it as a win in her long list of failures. She wanted to celebrate and she was in the right spot to do just that.

* * *

Wilford Rosier had been staring at a half-empty glass of Dragon Scale for the last hour. Any other night he would have been on the third drink already and accompanied by the prettiest (or only) lady in Leaky Cauldron. Even with the impending doom, he could not help scanning the room when he first walked in. There weren’t that many witches who visited pubs regularly, if at all. The one he had hoped to see was once again elsewhere. He only caught a glimpse of her going up the stairs a few days back but the image stayed with him. Her posture was marked with caution and with every step she left behind a scent of secrets.

He shook his head in an attempt to focus back on the task at hand. To his dismay, no matter how long he contemplated, he was no closer to the solution. He grunted and finished the ale in one gulp. As honored as he was to be handling such a personal matter, where on earth was he supposed to find the _perfect_ roommate for the Dark Lord himself? If he failed again… only Merlin knew what would happen to him.

He waited for the second glass with his head laid down onto the table. He knew he must have looked pathetic, but he also knew there weren’t any ladies there to notice him anyway. He heard footsteps approach his shadowed corner and assumed it was the barman. “I’ll need something stronger as well,” he said without looking up.

“Right, uh,” it was a different voice than the one he expected. “I heard you have a room. Is it still up for rent?”

He finally lifted his head to see a handsome wizard stand by the table. He appeared well-built but had soft features and a roundish face that made him seem younger than he probably was. “Yeah, yes. I do. Please, sit.”

“Thanks. I’m Herman, Herman Garnett.”

“Wilford Rosier,” they shook hands. “But just Will is fine. So, you looking for a place? ”

"Indeed. I’ve just moved back from the States. ”

“Just you, no family?”

“Most are dead,” his face revealed no sorrow. “My mother remarried, so she stayed there.”

_This is good_ , Wilford thought. _If things go sideways, it will be easier to get him to disappear…_

“I've heard your offer is much cheaper than what's on the market. Any particular reason?” he asked.

“Well, there are some strict house rules to follow. And you would also need to do chores.”

“Like a housemaid?”

“What? No, no. There are just a couple of plants that have to be watered at certain hours. I have a contract with everything listed if you are interested.”

He gave him a reassuring nod. “Sure.”

Wilford smiled, _could it be this easy?_ For a moment he thought he had lost the contract as he struggled to find it in the charmed pockets of his robe. “Ah, here it is,” he laid down five pages of parchment on the table.

“Seems fair enough,” Herman said as he skimmed through them.

“Great, I have a good feeling about you. Tom’s away on a business trip at the moment, so you can settle in, take care of those plants for now. Make sure not to put any objects out of place.”

“Got it, all in the contract,” he smiled. “When does this landlord come back?”

“I’m not sure, could be a week or less. I’d say there will be plenty of time to get acquainted but—” Wilford pointed at the contract.

“ _Never address the landlord unless spoken to first_ ,” he laughed. “If he is so uncomfortable with socializing, why does he want a roommate?”

“Simple. It’s more practical that way.” Wilford did not even need to lie. It was part of the truth, just not the main reason.

The Dark Lord had enough supporters and acquired some valuable assets already, but in the public eye, he still remained a poor orphan. For now, it was in his best interested to keep up the appearance.

“So, he is not only extremely introverted but also frugal?”

“You could say that. The economy is not as it once was all thanks to those silly muggles and their even sillier wars.”

There was a sudden shift in Herman’s expression, although it changed back too quickly for him to grasp it. It must have been disdain at the mention of muggles that he saw. Perhaps this roommate could join them. If Wilford ended up recruiting the right person, he could redeem himself for his previous mistakes. _This is going to be good, I know it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


	2. Who Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they finally meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for any spelling, grammar errors, and other inaccuracies. It is not exactly an excuse but English is not my first language.

Four keys dangled in her pocket as she walked through muggle London. Wilford said to turn left once she smelled freshly baked buns, then whisper _salto-mors_ into the blue postbox hanging on the only white doors in Drury Lane. He said it as if it was the easiest thing in the entire world. She, however, had her doubts. If she managed to find the flat, she would also have to figure out how to pass through a set of wards. Apparently, the landlord wanted to test his new tenant. Hermione sure did love a good challenge but having traveled back in time without a single clue as to how had affected her confidence somewhat.

Nevertheless, she found the postbox and had been transported to a cul-de-sac with long narrow buildings. They were all slightly misshaped, some painted brighter than would have been appropriate by muggle standards. She felt strange there, out of place. Granted, she _was_ using someone else’s body 50 years before her time. She decided not to dwell on it until her memories from that day resurfaced. There had to have been some sort of accident resulting in such unimaginable consequences. And she would figure it out eventually but now she needed her mind focused. She had a feeling these were not some simple wards she was about to face.

And they were not. She had spent almost 20 minutes trying to get in but still could not crack the last one. It was a spell she had never encountered before. She was getting irritated and wondered what kind of person would go such length to secure their flat… and for what?

_I’m going to be living with a paranoid maniac, aren’t I? I just want a bed to sleep in for reasonable pay, is it too much to ask?_

With that thought she realized the magic blocking the door began to fade. “So it’s my intention that he is testing, huh,” she said unlocking the door.

Hermione now stood at the doorway taking in the sight of her new home. She could see the living room from the entrance, it was all so… clean. It smelled of _nothing_ , even though no one had been here to open up the windows in several days. The air was neither fresh nor stale, she could not quite put it. She looked around and noticed there were no photos, no personal objects of any kind except for the three flower pots on a windowsill. Seeing those little green stems was quite the contrast to the lifeless atmosphere in the flat.

For all she knew, she could be snapped back to her time any moment, yet she refused to spend however long she had in such a grim place. Thankfully non of the rules applied to her room, she was allowed to do whatever she wanted in there and she panned do just that.

* * *

Days passed quickly, it was getting close to a week that she lived there. She abided with every rule listed in the contract, which oddly fixated on attending to the few plants in the flat. She had to water and rotate them twice a day, there were specific instructions with the exact measurements listed for each plant. Truth be told she thought it excessive but she was not going to sabotage herself by going against the wishes of her landlord. She could tell he was no ordinary wizard.

She also worked at the bookstore most of her time, even though she was hired as a part-timer. She was mainly responsible for closing it and preparing next day orders, but Mr. Goldlock was so impressed with her that soon she was tasked with bookkeeping as well.

Hermione was getting comfortable with her new schedule, she enjoyed feeling useful. Despite that, she found it hard to fall asleep at night. She wondered whether her friends noticed she was gone. Perhaps her own time had now been stuck in a limbo and the choices she made whilst here determined what kind of _now_ she would come back to. The uncertainty unsettled her, but she did not know what else she could do awaiting the news from Professor Dumbledore. He promised to reach out to his acquaintances, who studied time-turners and the like. So far there had been no progress.

A familiar face crept into her view disrupting her musings. She put down the book she had been holding for too long and walked over to now smiling Wilford. “Pleased to finally catch you here, Herman.”

“Likewise, have you been looking for me?”

“Why, yes. You have managed to impress my _dear_ friend Tom so much that he… well, he actually thanked me. Which he has never done before. I started to think that I imagined the whole thing, but here you are,” he laughed.

“Oh,” her mind was spinning. “Wait, he’s back?”

“Yes, he got back a couple of days ago. Have you two not met yet?” he seemed to be beyond amused. “This is brilliant! Now I see why he is so pleased.”

They must have had different schedules since they kept missing each other. Hermione searched her mind for any sign that another person had lived there with her for two days straight, but she came up empty-handed. _Is he a ghost? Does he not eat?_

“Can you tell me more about him? What does he do?”

“He actually works not far from here at Borgin and Burkes. I’m sure you will get more or less acquainted with each other. Living in such a small space you are bound to meet eventually.”

She wondered if she had perhaps crossed paths with her flatmate in Diagon Alley at some point. His employment, however, was rather questionable as was everything else about him.

* * *

Tom Riddle apparated into his living room and smelled the air — it was just as he had left it. There was no stench of leftovers creeping from the kitchen, no overpowering scent of someone’s cologne. His last tenant had made the mistake of both. Amongst others. He was the only one to blame for his own demise. Well, except maybe for Rosier. He should have done better research before placing someone in the Dark Lord’s home. And at last, it seemed he finally did.

It had been several days and he still had not seen the new flatmate. It wasn’t even on purpose, not on his part at least. If he was being honest, he was a bit curious about the person living in the next room. He made no sound, kept the place clean and even Tom’s plants flourished under his care. None of the previous flatmates managed that. He was impressed albeit somewhat reluctant to admit it. These were simple tasks that he included in the contract, anyone should have been able to follow them. Anyone with half a brain.

As per usual routine after work, he walked to the kitchen to make himself some tea. He charmed boiling water into a mug when a note on the table caught his attention. He picked it up and unfolded the paper.

_Dear Landlord,_

_You will find freshly made Shepherd’s pie in the fridge. Wilford has mentioned it is one of your favourites. Please accept it as a token of my gratitude for allowing me to stay._

_P. S. it will heat itself once you take it out._

_Best regards,_

_Herman_

Once out of the container the pie looked and smelled just like he remembered. He examining it for possible poisons but was not surprised to find none. The Dark Lord could not be too careful though.

While technically it was a breach of contract point “No unnecessary contact”, he decided to let it slide. The pie tasted even better than the one he used to have back in Hogwarts. He cut himself another slice and smiled. He never had someone make food just for him. He could not quite name the feeling inside. The only emotions he knew were anger, fear, and disgust. But this time it was none of those nor anything in between.

* * *

Her heart was pounding fast and she felt a little dizzy when she got back home that day. She questioned her decision of making the pie as a thank you. In retrospect, it seemed silly. She was pretending to be a wizard in the 40s after all.

_And what if he hated it? Would he kick me out?_

But soon she saw that the note was gone and so was half of Shepherd’s pie. Taking it as a good sign she sighed in relief. Her eyes then fixated on the doors to his room as she realized she forgot to cast _muffliato_. Could he have heard her come back? Hermione never was a loud person, unlike some people she knew. For the short time she had lived with Ron, he had woken her up many times simply by walking. The sound of his steps could have easily been mistaken for the ones of a giant. It hurt thinking about Ron, she missed all of them.

As a distraction, she stayed in the kitchen a little while longer imagining what kind of man lived behind those doors. But she had a feeling she would end up surprised no matter what.

* * *

A week passed. She made more food and left more notes. She half expected to find one herself with a thank you scribbled in neat letters (he was the type to have immaculate handwriting she imagined). But the only response she got was empty plates.

On Thursday she stayed after work to sort the newest publications. She had no other plans anyway and still did not know anyone besides Wilford, her employer, and a couple of regulars at the bookstore. While she talked with very few people by choice it was starting to take a toll on her. She had been feeling quite agitated so when she walked in the flat and sensed _something_ off, she was not sure what to make of it. It took her a moment to realize that there was a faint noise coming from the kitchen.

She stood frozen by the door with one shoe off weighing her options. She could sprint to her room _or_ she could follow the sound. Her curiosity won and so she walked ahead. She found the culprit to be a teakettle left on the stove unattended. She stared at the kettle utterly perplexed — there was barely any water left in there.

_What if it caught on fire? Did something happen to him?_

Even though she still had not met her landlord it seemed too out of character for him to be so reckless. And it worried her. Just then a door opened behind her. She turned on instinct and was met by a tall lean figure staring at her from the doorway.

Their eyes locked with a shiver running down her spine. His eyes were dark, hypnotizing. She had no doubts they’d haunt her tonight. To break the contact she gestured to the stove. “The teakettle,” she let out and glanced back at him in fear she had just broken one of the stupid rules by speaking first.

He did not seem to care. “I lost track of time,” he muttered.

Tom walked closer to the cabinet and took out a mug. She now had a better view of him where it would not have been so obvious if she stared a little longer. She watched tiny drops fall down from his wet hair to his neck. The drops disappeared underneath his dress shirt that he kept slightly unbuttoned. He was handsome, there was no point in trying to deny it. However, something about him unsettled her.

“I’m Herman Garnet,” she offered her hand to him hoping to dissolve the odd tension. “I don’t think we have been properly introduced.”

He looked her up and down, his face stayed blank. “I know who you are.”

“Of course,” she retreated her hand feeling even more awkward if that was possible.

 _What an arsehole_.

“Will told me you work with Mr. Goldlock. I have a favor to ask if I may.”

 _And a conceited arsehole at that._ “I hope it is a book you require, other than that, I’m afraid, I would not be of much help.”

He curled his lips into something that barely resembled a smile. “Yes, a book indeed. Have you heard of Godelot?”

She did and she did not like the least bit where this was going. “He wrote _Magick Moste Evile._ We don’t sell these kinds of books.”

“I’m well aware, however, what I’m interested in is Hereward’s manuscript. He was the son of Godelot.”

“We certainly don’t have it either,” she said.

“It was bought by an English collector in 1909 during an auction. No other records remain of the transaction. I’m led to believe Mr. Goldlock may have been the one to acquire it.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Did he expect her to snoop around at her place of employment?

“Why do you—,” she was cut off by tapping on the window.

She looked back and saw it was a white owl. She opened the window to let the bird in but it landed right on her arm. It was not an owl she recognized, though so far she only corresponded with Dumbledore. She took the letter ready to hand it over when the name on it caught her attention. It was addressed to Tom M. Riddle.

_Tom M. Riddle_

She knew that name. Her eyes snapped to her landlord standing only a few steps away. The letter fell out of her shaking hands.

_It cannot be. Surely fate would not be this cruel, would it?_

But it all made sense now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and kudos! <3 I'd love to hear your thoughts, too ^_^


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